In Stead
by pneuma.of.fresh.air
Summary: Tamsin isn't supposed to be in District 12, and everybody knows it. With no family, no friends, and nothing to live for, she decides that her best choice is to illicitly train for the Hunger Games. Take the spot of somebody who has a rightful place in the district, work to the top in the arena, and save the other District 12 tribute in the end? Sounds good. But can she do it?
1. 3, 2, 1, Start

Author's Note: This is the second story I am in process on, I maintain a promise from the other story-it will be finished, no matter how long it takes for me to get new chapters out. I will apply that promise to this story as well, because I hate being left hanging on a fanfic that never ties up. I am extremely nervous over this story, I really hope you like it! Thank you to anybody who takes the time to read this, I hope it doesn't disappoint!

-Pneuma

* * *

The clouds are being wrung out like a soaked sponge today, and my hair is plastered to my skin as I stare at the muddy shoes of the boy in front of me. I keep my head down in the attempt to direct the rainwater running down my face away from my eyes, even though every now and then a droplet of water will drop from an eyelash despite my best efforts. My clothes are drenched and stick to me where they can, and stretch towards the ground where they can't. There is no wind, but it's cold, and the heaviness of my wet clothes seems to drag the chill down into my bones. The chill in my heart, however, isn't from the cold, and neither is the twisted pretzel that is my stomach. This is my first time attending a reaping.

"Next," the voice of a husky peacekeeper calls, and I watch the shoes in front of me leave footprints in the mud and I step forward to replace them. "Hand," the voice says. I hold my hand out, warily keeping my face turned away from it. I can't stand looking at blood, and it's even worse when a needle is going to be pushing into my skin. I feel the stab that is the sterile point of the needle poking a new hole into my finger, then the rough feeling of my blood being rubbed off onto dry paper. I'm not sure how they've kept it dry, but the Capitol must have prepared for rain.

I'm fourteen, but it doesn't seem to faze any of the peacekeepers that my blood wasn't on the registry already. They just took it, stuck my name in the glass bowl, and sent me to stand with the other fourteen-year-olds. I don't understand why it isn't a big deal, but it's not. I go and take my place in the line, wearing my best clothes even though they are now soaked and hanging off of my body. They happen to be the same clothes I showed up in six months ago. I try to keep them pretty decent. I already had to trade my name in for tesserae, and sometimes I can exchange the stuff I get from that for pieces of fabric to patch everything up. Or soap. I'm not good at sewing, but I try. It seems as if my phobia of needles does not extend to them piercing fabric. My clothes probably resemble a pieced together quilt by now, and one stitched together by a five year old at that, but it's the best I can do. In line, I stay quiet and keep my head down. It's hard to be in this place knowing that I came from something better and not understanding how I lost it.

Because sometimes I wake up from dreams with my real memories, things I know I've never seen here but that are familiar. Warm water in a shower. People wearing bright colored clothes, but the designs are not like I see in The Capital on television, they're more suited for everyday living. I have dreams of fighting without the direct intent to kill. I used to practice Krav Maga. It's an Israeli martial art and while you're always supposed to assume you're going to kill somebody, obviously that doesn't happen in classes. These dreams are of a different place, a different kind of world. I wake up with this longing, because I know I'm supposed to be there but something switched out. The table cloth that was California was pulled out from under me, and the table underneath it was District 12. Instead of reading the Hunger Games I'm in it. It makes no sense. Maybe I'm in a coma, or hallucinating. Maybe I'm schizophrenic. I really don't know.

I'm not sure what happened to me. Nobody else in the District remembers me either, so it wouldn't make sense if I've always been here because it's a small District, and somebody would remember. I don't recall anything here past six months ago—that's when I woke up in a ditch covered in dirt. It took me a couple days to figure out what was going on and where I was, and I think that was the first thing that made people mistrust me. Nobody in the district should be unfamiliar with it. I'm commonly referred to as a Mutt. A muttation, a mutant thing sent in from the capital to torment them, although I've never done anything to merit that association. It's not like I have extra arms or anything like that, and I've never had a strange reaction triggered by something random either, so I'm mostly sure the Capital hasn't messed with me. Although maybe I died and have been gene spliced to bring me back to life. Cryogenics, maybe? But it still wouldn't make sense that I've read all of this in books. I could be a psychic, but those aren't real either. Then again, nothing should be real here.

I shiver and fold my arms across my body to shield myself from the cold even a little bit, but the constant onslaught of rain and my chilled clothes pretty much negate that effect. I should stop dwelling on my thoughts and focus more on what's going on around me, but I can't help it. Today especially reminds me of what is wrong with this whole picture. Maybe because it's different from the usual daily life in the district that I've gotten used to. Reaping day is different from daily life for everyone here, and the tension in the air is breathable.

People really do die every year. Kids, like me. It didn't take long for that to become bitterly clear, because a couple weeks after I started to exist here, a mother of one of the tributes who died in the last games committed suicide. A week later her husband followed. It was their only child. Six months ago, I looked around and I knew who would be in the Hunger Games in three years. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. Katniss instead of Prim. This year Prim isn't old enough to be in the drawing yet, but I'm in it and so are the two that I know will go to the games one day. We're the same age. They only have two years left after this. At first, I was glad it wasn't me. Now, I wish it was me.

The other teens don't talk to me or go near me. It hurts, but there is no way to stop it. Instead of being with friends during school breaks, I usually borrow the textbooks and read. I didn't really know the history of Panem, all I know is stuff that happened ages ago, and only what was in the books. Maybe. If it ever happened. Sometimes I sing to the mockingjays, singing is something I've been good at for a long time, although it's not completely natural talent because I took voice lessons for four years in California. I teach them rounds, like "row row row your boat." That way when they all sing it sounds really interesting, all of the notes winding around each other. I do it when nobody else is there, I don't want to disturb people. I try to stay out of everyone else's way. I don't belong here, and they know it, and I know it.

I'm not doing a very good job of surviving. I can't tell how much weight I've lost, since I don't have a mirror or a scale, but it's a lot. I tighten my arms across my chest and realize that I my clothes are wet enough and cling to my body enough that I can feel my bones through my skin. It's not like I'm starving on purpose, I eat dandelions when I find them, and since my name is in for tesserae I get some grain and oil every month. A better chance at death is the price you pay to try to stay alive, it's ironic really. I don't really care about that anymore though. If I get pulled this year, I'd feel nothing but relief. I hate living like this. I don't know how to live like this. Maybe I'll volunteer. Today is reaping day after all, a very special day. I should help everyone celebrate by keeping a girl with a family alive through another round of the lottery.

Effie Trinket is our capital representative this year. I guess she actually wasn't last year, but she is now. She'll be here next year too, I know this, and she will be here the year after that when Katniss and Peeta go in. I watch the video, squinting up at it through the rain. It's the same one as last year with slightly different commentary. I can tell because some of the other kids can quote it. I can't. I don't know it well enough. I haven't been here long enough. My stomach churns, twisting that pretzel into tighter knots. Guilt. Effie reaches into the bowl, pulls out a name. I wince as I hear it, watch the girl go up. She's seventeen. Only had one more years to get through, then she would have been safe. I try to make myself say the words, _I volunteer_, but I can't get my mouth to work right. I'm ashamed. Self-hatred. She's already up there. The boy's name gets chosen. Again I wince, but I can't volunteer for him. I've lost my chance. I deserve to die. I am a disappointment to myself. The girl's family is in a huddle, crying. They know she probably won't come back. I know she definitely won't come back. I deserve to die.

After the peacekeepers let us go, I run to the part of town where people don't go. I'm not sure if they just never went there in the first place, or if it's to avoid me, but I did try to find the most unused part. It's a corner fairly close to the fence. I drop to my knees and I vomit, until the little meal I'd made of dandelions earlier today is no longer part of the contents of my stomach. Today was hard, especially since I understand now that I should be going in to that arena next week. It isn't fair that someone with a family and people that care about them should go. It isn't fair that anybody should go. I stare at my hands. I feel ridiculous. I've never supported teenage angst in writing, but here I am. I laugh out loud, but it's not joyful. It's full of bitterness. My mind works quickly now, in an attempt to work through the angst to a solution. It comes to me. I know where to go.

A few minutes later I'm at the Everdeen house, knocking on the door. Mrs. Everdeen opens it, stares at me like I'm some kind of gaseous poison. I wonder if it's because she thinks I'm a mutt, or if it has something to do with the fact that I'm water-logged and covered in mud. Before I vomited the entire contents of my stomach, the mud was only caked around the hems of my pants and all over my worn out shoes. Now it's slathered over my knees and down my shins, and my hands still have traces of it on them despite being somewhat cleaned by the rain.

"Can I speak to Katniss?" Mrs. Everdeen's eyebrows raise slightly, and she turns from her position in the doorway to call for Katniss. I see a brief glimpse of Prim's wide eyes curiously staring at me before Katniss is at the door. Katniss knows me from school I'm sure. She usually eats alone or with Madge inside, I always eat alone outside. But we share some classes, and since I'm the school's pariah I'm pretty sure that's contributed to my being noticed. Enough people have to know who the outcast is before they can become one.

"Do you want something?" she asks. I look at her. I've calculated it out: I know that mastery of a skill comes after 10,000 hours of working at it. If I practice pretty much all day every day, for the next two years, I might be able to get good enough using the bow and arrow to do damage. I figure I've got some close range training with the Krav Maga, which is not a sissy martial art, but I need distance. Enemies aren't always close range, and when I volunteer, I want to be ready.

"I know you hunt, using a bow and arrow." She looks at me suspiciously, probably wondering if I'm going to turn her in or something. "Will you teach me how to do that?"

"Why should I?" I've expected this, I know from the books that Katniss doesn't really do things unless there's something in it for her.

"I'll practice when you're not using it, or I'll make my own if you want. Anything I kill, it's yours. I'll stick my name in the lottery extra for your whole family. The peacekeepers don't know my last name, nobody does. I'll just say I'm an Everdeen. Bet they won't care, nobody seems to. I don't care if you use it, or if you give it to somebody else, I'll do it."

She stares at me as if trying to figure out if I'm being serious—I don't think she believes me.

"Prove it." She tells me.

"Okay. Let's go." I march to the place where names are traded, and up to the peacekeeper standing there. "I'd like to take out tesserae for the rest of my family please. There's three. I've already got one out for me, but we just don't have enough." The peacekeeper, and Katniss, both stare at me like I'm insane. Maybe I am. Mostly I just don't care if I survive another reaping or not, so it doesn't bother me. The peacekeeper knows I'm not an Everdeen, I don't look like any of them, but he hands me three slips of paper anyways. I'll just say I'm adopted if anybody asks, even though I'm not sure if that happens here. I write my name on each one, _Tamsin Everdeen_. He takes the slips of paper and puts them into the ball for the girls, which is mostly empty right now. Hands me the tesserae. Directs me to where I can pick up the grain and oil for the rest of my "family."

"After school." Katniss says as we walk back to her house with the months' supply of grain and oil I've got for her whole family. "Where you live." I understand what she is saying. She'll teach me. I nod and help drop the food at her house. Her mom and Prim both stare at me, and then at the food. I smile a little, attempting to not look bloodthirsty, or however I look usually that repels people. Prim smiles back a tiny bit. Then I leave.


	2. Drive

Author's note! I'm really happy to hear positive comments and see that people are liking the story so far, even though this is only the second chapter. I am still super nervous about it, and I hope it continues to be something worth reading! Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read it, enjoy the chapter!

-Pneuma

* * *

I'm sitting in a puddle of water at school today. My clothes are still wet from the day before, and since they're all I have there wasn't anything dry to change into. After every class, I have to use a little rag I found this morning to wipe down the seat. I may have to sit in a puddle, but I don't need to leave one. The other students eye me suspiciously every time I wipe down the seat, and I wonder if they think I've got a bladder control problem or if they're just grossed out by it in general because it came from my clothes.

I sit alone at school again for lunch, which for me has nothing to do with eating because usually I don't have anything to bring to eat. It's not raining outside right now, but all the seats are wet and the sky is still dark with storm clouds. I don't mind it because I'm already wet so a little water on the seat isn't going to change anything. I stare blankly at a leaf on the tree in front of me. Usually I can't wait for school to get out because it's almost torture for me, but today it feels like I'm about ready to vault out of my skin. I only came to pass the time doing something semi-productive. After today I won't be attending school. I will be devoting all of my time to training. I feel that this is a good trade off. I'm jiggling my leg up and down restlessly and fidgeting more than I do regularly because the lessons I really care about will be coming after these classes, and I've only made it through half of school so far. It's not just excitement that has me so agitated though, it's also worry. If I get caught, I'm dead. Katniss is dead. That's what I really mind. I don't have much of a sense of self-preservation anymore, but I do have a sense of other people preservation. Even the mockingjays can't even bring me out of the anxiety.

When school is over, I bolt out of my seat without mopping up the puddle, but I know that I can't make it look too suspicious. Even though I know this, it takes all the self-control I have to keep myself from running back to my hovel. I get there before Katniss does, which I expected. I didn't think she would be in as much of a hurry as me. When she gets there, she doesn't say much. This is understandable, you never know who is listening here. Even I watch my mouth; I'd rather not die before I get the opportunity to put my death to good use.

"Follow me," she says simply. I nod and follow. I watch her listen to the wired fence for a buzz, there is none. She scoots under the fence through a hole, I wriggle through after her, although it's a bit more of a tight space for me since I'm a bit bigger than her. Not fat obviously, it's hard to look at my ribs through my skin and think anything but "I'm hungry." Just bigger. Once we're in the woods, she pulls a bow seemingly out of nowhere and arms herself with it. I'm sure that this speed is from years of practice at not getting caught, but it's still impressive to me. We go deeper into the forest, where the brighter light that was available towards the edge of the trees grows progressively dimmer as we walk. She talks more after we are in farther, it feels safer.

"You won't be using this bow," she says, shrugging her shoulder to indicate that she is referring to the bow she carries. "I've got others. We're going to grab one of those, and then work on the basics," she tells me.

"Okay," I say. I think this is a better option than me having to use her bow. I can practice while she's there now. Guided instruction. We go deeper into the forest, and I can tell she's more alert. I remember that there are wild dogs and other animals that sometimes go after people in here, and I get why she's on edge. Plus she's stuck with me, and I probably seem pretty useless. I also notice that I make a lot more noise as I walk through the forest than she does, which could attract the bigger animals to potential prey. She pauses and unearths another bow, then hands it to me.

"You'll work with this one. We're going to start simple. How you stand, how you angle everything, it works into how your shots go," she says. She shows me how she does it, and I attempt to copy her stance. I'm obviously a beginner, but I'm determined, and I know that I'll progress faster if I take every critique seriously. I make corrections wherever she tells me to. I raise or lower my elbow, I grip the bow in a different place. At last, she is satisfied with the way I hold the bow. "That's all you get for today. I have to hunt."

"Is it okay if I keep practicing?" I ask her. She looks at me like I'm crazy.

"You know there are animals out here that can eat you right? You can't even use that yet. You'd be hopeless," she says. I look her in the eyes.

"I know. I'd like to keep practicing anyways," I tell her. I figure that if a pack of wild dogs comes after me it would be a good way to practice the Krav Maga I did before I found myself here. I've studied it since I was nine. The circumstances that brought me to studying it are pretty dramatic, and it was surprising because my family didn't live in a bad area. I was walking home from school one day, and got held at gun point by a group of thugs. I'm not quite sure why they thought targeting a nine year old was the way to go, although I think it most likely had to do with the fact that I was an easy target. They took anything that had remotely any value and still found a reason to plant a bullet in the side of my leg. Of course, one look down at the blood and I was on the ground unconscious. I wonder if they left me there because they thought I was dead. I still have the scar from that bullet. My parents were furious. We moved to a new town, but my mom was determined that if something like that happened again, I'd have some training in self-defense. I guess she did some research and found that Krav Maga deals with defending from weapons and not just unarmed attackers.

I smile grimly. If only she knew what I would be using it for in two years. I feel sick about it myself, the idea of killing anybody else. The idea of the blood that usually goes with killing somebody else, which is a huge problem for someone who plans to go into an arena where you either kill or get killed. I can only imagine a scenario where I've just slit someone's throat, see the blood, pass out, and get killed by someone else while I'm incapacitated by my own phobia. I'm working on getting over that. I'll have to in order to do what I need to do.

"Okay then. Should I come back here after I'm done?"

"Probably, I don't know how to get back. I'm sorry I'm slowing you down. I'm sure it's irritating," I say. She doesn't say anything, just leaves. I surely am a nuisance, but it's the only way I could think of to learn how to use a long distance weapon. Maybe I should attempt to teach myself how to use a slingshot too. I've heard that shepherds once upon a time could kill wolves that attacked their sheep using them. There's a lot of power in that, and they're probably easy to make. But I will definitely learn how to use the bow, because someone is actually showing me how it's done. I'm not sure if I could pull off the sling trying to teach myself. I'll still try though.

I practice the correct stance for handling the bow over and over. I practice grabbing the bow from different angles and getting into the stance as fast and correctly as possible. I am obsessive about the details. I will do this right. I practice like this for hours, until Katniss comes back with a bunch of dead birds slung around her back. I put the bow away.

"I should teach you how to get from here to the fence at least," she says. As we go back, she points out landmarks. I use memory techniques to try to remember them. Matching them up with mental pictures, putting them into mnemonics, everything I can think of. I will be skipping school every day from now on to practice. I have to get in a good fourteen hours every day for two years if I'm going to reach mastery level. It feels impossible, but I'll force myself to do it no matter how tired I get. We reach the fence, and squeeze under, I go back to where I sleep, portioning out my time for every day for the next two years.

Twenty four hours in a day, fourteen hours for practicing with the bow. That leaves ten. I mentally divide that into eight hours for sleep, then two extra. I'll use some of the extra to eat, I'll give myself 60 minutes the total of every meal, if I can even get food for the day. 20 minutes per meal. I'm not sure how I'm going to do it. I'll have to trade most of my food away for a watch or something, so I know how long I've been going. I'll also use the last hour left for cross training. I'll run three days a week, and pair that with push-ups, crunches, basic stretches and things like that. This makes me feel sick, since I hate running, and pretty much all forms of muscle training, but I have to build up stamina. Three days I'll practice my Krav Maga to keep my skills up, stretching will be included there as well. Maybe I'll go and purposefully find some wild dog packs for that. The extra hour I'll use for whatever I feel needs to happen. It's military strict, but there's no other way to get as good as I need to be.

Maybe I'm crazy, actually I almost certainly am. But I'm determined, and I've got motivation enough. The memory of the girl who next week will be going into the arena to die. I make a face at the Capitol's idea of having training first, since a week is not nearly enough. I know this because of all the calculating I've been doing. She will be killed. So will the boy. It's sickening. But I will atone. I will become strong.


	3. The Hunt

Thank you as always to everyone who takes the time to read this story, I hope it continues to be worth it!

-Pneuma

* * *

I train every day, all day. I don't go to school anymore, and I'm fairly sure nobody misses me. I see Katniss once or twice a week for more instruction, and I'm getting a lot better with the bow. I've actually made kills now, of course I hand them over to her. They're obviously shot as well as Katniss could have, but I figure the extra meat has to be worth something. I've also seen Gale in the woods now. He doesn't trust me at all, I can feel it when he's seen me practicing. His eyebrows pull together a little and his eyes narrow, his lips press together as if he's trying to keep from spitting out not so kind words. Unlike Katniss, who knows I've been true to my word, he can't decide whether or not I'm going to run off with a turkey or something. I guess it would make sense since I'm so thin. But I'm also stronger now. I keep to my training regimen firmly. Even if I'm practicing the most basic technique for using the bow, I practice it for fourteen hours. It gets boring, and it's not the most fun to sit there and fire shots over and over into various targets I've set up, but I'm improving more quickly than I would have if I didn't work so hard.

Because I stretch and run and do various forms of strength training and endurance work for an hour every day outside of the fourteen hour work with the bow, if there was any fat on my body before training there definitely isn't now. Just muscle, a lot of lean muscle. I also reset my sleep cycles every month by staying up an entire 24 hours and then going to sleep at the time I'd like to sleep every day. I switch off between being awake at different times, I've had a month where I slept through most of the day and worked during the night. It's a lot more dangerous to be in the woods at night. The thickness of the trees makes the forest darker than anywhere more open, so it's harder to see, but I want to be able to fight during all those different times. I know the other tributes will be hunting the others down day and night, and I need to be ready for that. The more dangerous animals are also out at night. Big cats, wild dog packs, and bears. I didn't start doing large stretches of night work until after eight months of training, since I wanted to be good enough with a bow to stand a better chance with the bigger animals.

I've met a bear and a few wild dogs. I had to kill some of the dogs, but I didn't shoot them. I broke them using the Krav Maga techniques I also keep in practice, and then slit their throats. I didn't like doing it, but it was that or death. It was good to test out the skills in a real situation though, even if it isn't the same as facing people. The bear I did shoot, but it didn't go down from the arrow. I ended up slitting its throat too. Katniss got the majority of the meat from those encounters, but she did give me a bit back. She didn't have to, I made it clear, but there's compassion in there somewhere. Or maybe it's because of Prim.

Prim isn't afraid of me. When I show up at back door of their house, she's usually the one that answers the knocks. She's very small, only eleven. The reaping tomorrow will be the last before she's twelve. She always smiles and invites me in, and when I decline she shakes her head so that her two blonde braids whip back and forth and insists that I come inside. I don't think her mom likes that, because I'm constantly filthy. Prim's blue eyes sparkle and are kind, her mother's blue eyes have a slight spark, but they've mostly dulled. I'm sure this dullness came from when her husband died, and I wonder what she was like before. She moves around the little kitchen preparing the meat she wants to use for meals with purpose though. Heating things with the coal, skinning rabbits or plucking birds, chopping the meat up on the wooden table in the center of the kitchen. Her hair is usually braided up. It seems to be a trend for their family, the braids.

I think about the people that I actually see fairly regularly, and realize that they come to a grand total of four. Katniss, Prim, Mrs. Everdeen, and Gale. It hurts me a little to think that out of those, only one actually seems to like me. Katniss I think tolerates me and helps me because of the food I help bring in. Gale obviously doesn't think I'm worth much. Mrs. Everdeen tolerates me but I think mostly dislikes me. Prim is the only one who might actually think I'm cool on my own. I wish it wasn't like that, but I'm unfamiliar to everyone, and nobody wants to trust somebody with an unknown past. I understand of course, it's dangerous to trust anything strange. But it's lonely for the stranger.

I lay there in my ditch, staring at the dark sky, trying to trace my thoughts in the constellations, but they aren't there. It's been a year. I've made progress using the bow, but I'm nowhere near where I need to be to go into the arena. Honestly, I can't think of anyone I'd rather volunteer for than Prim anyways. I wonder how badly I'll mess things up. Maybe enough to ensure more survivors. I really don't have anybody, so if President Snow wants to go after me, there won't be much to go after. Tomorrow someone else will go to die. I will watch, waiting for next year when I'll have enough training to volunteer, and hate myself while watching the dead walk up the stage. I close my eyes, the thoughts that couldn't be found in the stars burned into the dark of my eyelids, and eventually fall asleep.

I wake up the next day to light on my face and open my eyes a sliver. I don't like mornings very much, and this morning is even worse than a normal morning. I wish I could stay in my ditch. But I get up, force dry grain down my throat with a bit of water, and head for the forest. It's reaping day, but I'm hunting anyways. I know Katniss and Gale will be out there, and I figure why not go too. I check around me, then head for the chink under the fence nearest where I sleep and worm under it. By now, I can pick out the exact way to the bow that has been designated for my use, and work through the trees, practicing the art of walking silently. I see a couple wild turkeys run across my path and smile, hoping I'll be able to snag a couple moving targets as part of practice this morning. I get to the tree where my bow is and pull it out from the hollow of the tree and unwrap the tarp, then I take my quiver of arrows and sling it over my back, and notch an arrow into place. I head back to where I saw the turkeys and manage to take down two before I hear a stillness that make me stop, and listen. I'm not sure what it is, but the forest sounds wrong to me. The animals are silent, and I'm wondering why. It's not just me, or it wouldn't be this quiet.

I hear it right before I turn.


	4. Prey

Author's note! As per request, and because I've been getting this on both of my stories, I've tried to write a longer chapter here. Again, I thank everyone who has read the story up to now, and am glad that you've liked it. I always love reading reviews and seeing that people enjoy the story. I hope the new chapter doesn't disappoint!

-Pneuma

* * *

It's a predator. A mountain lion, and it's poised on a branch of the tree that was just behind me, fur prickled up, ears pushed back, and teeth bared. I'm at the disadvantage, the cat has the benefit of being above me, and being ready to make me lunch. I'm not sure what to do. If I killed it, I might be able to sell the fur, but not the meat. I've gotten used to smaller animals being skinned and such but a big cat is something I'm not used to. At the moment, however, I'm thinking I might not be the winner in this battle. I'm caught off guard, the cat has some built in weapons and a body that moves in different ways than mine. I wonder if I'll be able to kill it, and then wonder if this is similar to how it may feel going up against another human with different weapons and skills than mine. I decide that this is similar, and that if I don't make it out alive it's better that I didn't go into the arena.

I take a slow step back and make an effort to look bigger. I've read that size and noise is good for dealing with animals like this, and also never turning my back on it. Eye contact. Challenge the animal and try to show aggression, because if you don't seem like prey, you might not get turned into prey. I yell loudly as I notch an arrow into the bow, trying to go for the noise aspect. The cat tenses its muscles, and the slight wiggle in the rear makes it very clear that I'm still targeted as prey. It leaps.

I spring back just fast enough to avoid the cat's landing, but I know that avoiding isn't going to be enough here. I'll have to attack, but do it in a way that keeps me and especially my neck, away from that jaw. The bite force of a big cat is impressive, and they go for the neck primarily to make the kill. I train my bow and arrow at a point on the cat's neck. If I shoot well enough, I could potentially take it down in one shot, but the cat's moving and if I don't move too it won't matter if I've got my bow and arrow because I won't be able to use it. Dead people aren't the best hunters.

I dance out of the way of a swiping paw, and train the arrow back onto the neck of the cat. The cat coils back to spring again, right as I let the arrow go. The animal and the arrow collide in the air, and the arrow burrows into the cat's flesh. It falls to the ground, twitching. It's not dead, but I'm fairly sure it's dying. The eyes, very like a human's eyes to me in this moment, are locked on mine. I can't help but feel saddened by it. Its chest heaves up and down as it struggles to breath, and I don't want to watch it suffer, but I also don't think I can bring myself to end its life now. Why this cat is different than any of my other kills, including the bear and wild dogs is a mystery to me. But for some reason it is.

I walk forward and the cat manages to hiss at me, it still has spirit in it enough for that. I talk quietly to it, telling it that it didn't really give me a choice, and that I hadn't wanted to shoot it. This seems to calm it and I kneel next to it, reach for the arrow, and realize it might not have pierced a vital organ, but it went through the animal enough that the point of the arrow is on one side of its shoulder and the other end is on the other side of the shoulder. I snap the arrow and remove it, then rip part of my pants off and wrap it over the wound. I don't know why I'm doing this, but I can't stop myself. I just feel like I need to do it. The cat's eyes are fastened on me, and I wonder what it is thinking, watching me do this. I wonder if it knows I'm trying to help or if it thinks I'm still harming it.

I finish dressing the wound, wondering if the cat will survive, not paying attention when one of the cat's powerful paws has beat me across my face. I fall back on the ground, confused, and see that the cat is now on its feet, limping slightly but still powerful. I don't move. How long will it take the cat to finish me off? But the cat simply blinks at me slowly, turns, and stalks away. I hope to myself that it has somewhere safe, still surprised at my compassion for the animal whose claws have dug deep marks into the side of my face. I put my hand up to my cheek and feel the blood there. I don't look at it, but stare ahead of me as I stand, grab my string of dead turkeys, and stow the bow back away. If I look at the blood, my chances of returning to town will be greatly diminished.. Then I walk back to the fence and wriggle my way back under it and to the back door of the Everdeen house, fully aware that it's reaping day and I've now got claw marks across my face and blood dripping out of them. Fantastic.

I knock on the door and as usual it's Prim who opens it. I hold out the turkeys, but she doesn't take them. She's too busy staring at my face.

"That noticeable?" I ask her, managing a smile even though it hurts my face to move the muscles.

"Come inside, you can't go to the reaping like that," she tells me. "Those aren't housecat sized claw marks Tamsin, they're smart enough to know that at least." She grabs me and yanks me into the house, and calls for her mother. Mrs. Everdeen comes out and takes one look at me, and bustles off for her medical supplies, ordering Prim to start cleaning me up. "I think you're going to need stitches," Prim says. I wrinkle my nose. Needles and blood, my two least favorite things. I'm having a really good day today. I look at my blood-free hand, fingers still clutching onto the string of dead turkeys, and think to myself that at least I made some kills.

Mrs. Everdeen comes out with bandages, and a variety of bottles of herbal remedies. After setting those down, she starts some water boiling in a pot. Into the pot drops thread and a needle, which means that she too thinks I need stitches.

"You're absolutely going to need stitches for these wounds," Mrs. Everdeen confirms, answering my thoughts and validating Prim's earlier assertion. "I'll put on some herbs that can numb you up for it, but you'll likely still feel something through them a little bit. Lay down and hold still." I do what she tells me to do, feeling like I'm about to pass out.

"Turkeys for you," I say, trying to distract myself from the knowledge that a needle and thread are going to be poking through my skin. "I have a weird request though," I then say, suddenly realizing something.

"What would that be?" she asks me, dabbing something onto my face.

"Is there any way that you can make these marks not look so much like claw marks? If they heal like this it would be pretty obvious to the peacekeepers I think," I tell her. She considers me for a moment.

"I could, but it's not going to be pleasant, and it's not going to be pretty," she tells me. I smile wryly.

"Doesn't matter. Can you do it?" I ask. I close my eyes when I see Mrs. Everdeen reach for a knife and plunk it into the boiling water.

"Okay. Prim, hold her head still?" Prim's eyes widen at her mother's request, and she comes and holds my head down. My eyes are still closed when I feel something sliding across my skin, and that's when I pass out.

I wake up with my face bandaged, and Prim's face looking down at mine, her eyes wide as she stares at me. Katniss is there too now, and I notice that she is dressed up for the reaping. I also notice that the turkeys have been plucked and cleaned, which I'm grateful for. I didn't want them to go to waste.

"What happened to you?" she asks me.

"Mountain Lion," I tell her.

"I've never met one of those. Did you kill it?"

"No, but I shot it."

"You didn't kill it and you got away with just this?"

"Yeah. I could have killed it, it was injured. But for some reason I..." my voice trails off, knowing that if I tell Katniss what I did she won't be happy with it.

"You what?" asks Prim. I turn to look at her. She would surely not be so critical, so I decide to address my next words to her.

"I took out the arrow and dressed the wound. It was after that when the cat took a swipe at my face," I say. Prim smiles a little bit. Katniss on the other hand is looking at me like I've gone insane.

"Why would you do that?!" she asks.

"I don't know. I couldn't let it die like that, I'm not sure why," I say, then quickly change the subject. "How long till the reaping?"

"Soon. We should get to the square," she says. I stand, and immediately feel a little dizzy, but force myself to stay up and move my feet. It's supposed to help with dizziness. Then I follow them all out of the house as we travel to the square.

I hate the square today. Usually it's more warm and cheerful, something that doesn't look as solemn or sad as the rest of District 12. Today it's cold and depressing. I try to stay positive and remind myself that at least it isn't raining this year, but the atmosphere is too overwhelmingly dark for me to feel cheered up by that. Even though it's supposed to look festive, there isn't anything to like about it. The stage set up in it, the decorations, all of these things are overshadowed by the camera crews, the capitol flags, and worst of all the two glass balls holding the names of two people who are going to die for sure this year. I don't know who will go this year. I don't know who is going to be called. I know who will be called next year and I know that I will volunteer next year. But I don't know about this year. I may not have known my classmates very well, and I may not have been liked by them, but I still don't want to watch them die.

My blood gets drawn and I'm sent to line up with all the other fifteen year olds. I take my place in the queue, and notice that there's more space between me and the next person than between everybody else. I also notice that the girl is still edging away from me surreptitiously, as if trying to hide the fact that I obviously creep her out. Katniss was already in line behind a couple more kids when I got there. I'm being looked at with distrust and distaste. They all probably hoped I was dead or dying after not seeing me at school for so long. I look up at one of the screens and glimpse my bandaged up face. I don't look too bad. Slightly swollen, but the bandaging covers up everything else nicely. I'm glad.

Someone comes to line up on the other side of me, and I notice that the space between me and this person isn't so wide. I glance over to see who the brave one is and am slightly surprised. It's Peeta. I study him a little bit, as if crossing things off of a mental checklist. I've never been this close to him, and after reading the books it's hard not to match up the descriptions with the boy next to me. Blonde hair, light skin but somewhat tan, slightly stocky build, and I can see the muscles that must have been built up from working in the bakery. His head turns to look at me and I check "bright blue eyes" off the list too.

"Hey," he says, smiling slightly. He seems to be furtively appraising my bandages. I'm not surprised by this, I am no doubt the subject of several curious minds because of them. They're big and cover a fairly large portion of my face, which makes them hard to miss. "Nice day, isn't it?" I can tell he's forcing this in an attempt to be friendly, possibly in an attempt to fend off nervousness. I decide to try too, not wanting to make this harder for him. It's already hard to deal with the possibility of facing your own death, it's possibly worse to get stuck beside the weirdo creep with bandages at the same time.

"Yeah, for the most part. I'm not really into parties, but I figured since I got the invitation I'd come to this one," I say. His smile becomes more genuine.

"This isn't really my kind of party either," he replies. I can tell he is interested in the story behind my face by the way he keeps glancing at the bandages, but doesn't want to bring it up.

"There isn't any cake, this is disappointing. I really only came for the food," I say. "I feel robbed."

"Me too. It really is a shame."

"I wonder how they would decorate it if there was cake. They could make it into last year's arena and stand some people figurines on sugar cube blocks facing the cornucopia? That seems like something our gracious hosts might provide," I muse. The smile is a little more pronounced now.

"If they did district themed cakes, they could use them in a special television feature. I could see that as a nice addition to the usual lineup," he adds. I snort softly.

"I can see that too," I tell him. I put on the Capitol accent but say it very quietly, "The District 12 cake features real coal dust, giving you a taste of everyday life in the mines. What a splendid addition Bob!"

"Well Mary, I felt that the gritty texture and slight dirt flavor would add a richness to the cake and lend it that true authenticity that you just can't get with anything else," Peeta responds, surprising me. I wasn't expecting a reply. I work hard to keep the smile off my face.

"Well folks, stop by and grab one of these coal dust cakes before it's too late, but remember, too much coal dust can be toxic. May the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" I say the last part sardonically, making it clear that if it was up to me the odds wouldn't be in their favor. Peeta makes a face too. After that, we fall silent, since the mayor is standing to give the obligatory speech. Haymitch is up there too, actually sitting in his chair, although he looks so drunk that he's probably just in a stupor at the moment and could fall out of the chair without warning. I carefully ignore the speech, then half watch the movie.

Effie Trinket steps up to the podium. Her hair is pale blue this time, and her outfit is a garish color of neon orange, a truly revolting combination. Her high heels are blue as well, and they're so high that I wonder how she stands in them. I once had a pair of four inch heels, but hers have to be way higher than that. Also way uglier, I really don't see the allure. I briefly let my mind wander to the question of marriage in the capital, and how they attract each other, and whether or not they date. I can't imagine going for any of the capital men I've seen the few times I've watched TV, but someone must find that attractive. It's weird to me.

I come back to reality as Effie digs her hand into the glass ball, pulls out the slip of paper, and reads off the name. I don't recognize it, but I see a girl walk up to the stage looking like a wilted flower, scared and defeated. The boy is called next, and I watch him walk up too. I feel sick again and look away from the podium.

"Are you okay? You look really pale all the sudden," Peeta says. "Is it your…ah…wound?" I shake my head no.

"I'm fine. Just feeling a little sick, no big deal," I tell him. Effie is giving another small speech, and then we are all dismissed. I try to walk slowly for as long as I can, then break into a run when I feel like it's safe. Just like last year, I find myself on my hands and knees throwing up until I'm just dry heaving. I didn't eat this morning on purpose—I didn't want there to be very much in there to come out. I'm coughing and dry heaving like that for a while, then as it dies down I realize that someone is holding my hair back. I look around and see that it's Peeta. I freeze. "What are you doing?"

"Holding your hair, obviously," he says. I frown.

"No, I mean why are you here? Don't you have somewhere to be?" I'm not happy about this. At the same time, I find that part of me is happy about this. I shouldn't be happy about it, so I focus on the not happy part.

"You looked really bad, I wanted to make sure you were okay," he said. I remember now that Peeta is simply a genuinely nice person and relax a little bit.

"I'm fine now. It's normal," I tell him.

"Normal to come out here and puke your guts out?" he asks me.

"On reaping day, it is," I say.

"Oh," he mumbles. I get up and relocate myself to sit on a small grassy mound. I take note of the dandelions nearby and decide that they will be dinner.

"It's fine," I reply. He stands and moves to a grassy mound opposite mine.

"So, I've been wondering, what happened to your face? It looks recent."

"Ah…I got into a fight with a cat. It was larger than average," I say, carefully avoiding saying that I was out in the woods. I see the flash of understanding run across his eyes.

"I see. I take it you won?"

"It was a tie," I reply.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah."


	5. Resolve

Author note! Sorry it's taken so long to update this story! Finals, holidays, then two weeks of various illnesses in quick succession postponed progress longer than I wanted. I'd like to thank everyone that takes the time to read this story, it's always great to know that people are liking it. As always, I really hope you enjoy this chapter!

-Pneuma

* * *

I'm keeping my eyes open, and fixed on a water stain on the ceiling of the Everdeen home, fingers gripping the edges of the wooden chair I'm sitting on so hard that my fingernails have turned white. I'm willing myself not to pass out this time, but when Prim starts to gently peel the bandages from my face I can already feel my vision start to blur. I've had the bandages changed twice, and I've fainted both when they come off and when I try to wash them to reuse later. It's the blood: I haven't been able to get past my phobia. When I see it on the bandages, I'm down. For some reason, I can handle blood alright when it's an animal I've shot to bring in for food, but I can't look at mine, and I'm almost positive that I can't look at another human's either. I was hoping that I'd made progress with my phobia, but it's clear that I haven't. It worries me, because if I'm going into that arena, that's a huge weakness. Usually killing involves some kind of blood, and if I pass out every time I see someone bleeding, I'm dead.

Prim eases the bandage off, and even though I'm trying so hard to concentrate on that water stain and nothing else, I catch a glimpse of the few small spots of blood on the bandage and even though there's barely anything and it's old blood, I can feel the blood draining from my face and then I'm down. I open my eyes a little bit later, realize I've slumped down in the chair, and scoot myself back up, directing my eyes back up to the ceiling as Prim wipes down my cuts. I haven't looked at my face without the bandages yet because I'd rather not pass out more than necessary. The stitches are coming out today.

"I think you should lay down for this," Mrs. Everdeen says, taking over from Prim. I want to protest, because I don't like feeling wimpy, but I don't argue since I know she's right. I move my feet back and forth before standing up, and walk to the table, climb up and lay down on it. I know that's where Mrs. Everdeen does her work. I take some time to pick a new place on the ceiling to stare at in my quest to stay conscious, but then close my eyes when I see the tweezers she has ready to get the stitches out. I feel guilty for receiving the medical treatment, especially when I'm supposed to be helping the family as part of my deal with Katniss instead of getting treatment from them. When I feel the little tickle of the thread being pulled out, I black out again. I don't wake back up until she is done. It really is pathetic how badly I deal with this stuff. I'd never make it as a doctor.

"They're all out now, and there's no blood, so I think you can probably look at your face," Prim tells me while her mom cleans the tweezers that I'm very carefully not looking at.

"Okay," I respond. Her mouth scrunches up a tiny bit, and I can tell that she's a little worried about this. I don't know if she's worried that I'll pass out, or worried about how I'll react to what I'm going to see. "How bad does it look to you?" I ask her.

"Um…it looks…it looks alright," she tells me. Translation: it looks bad. I walk to the mirror and see my face. It does look bad. Mrs. Everdeen's work to make the scars look less like claw marks from a big cat was a success, it definitely does not resemble the swipe of a paw. The scars that are starting to form are thinner, and have been hatched and placed closer together. The scars run from just above my ear on the right side of my face down across my cheek and partially on my chin and the corner of my mouth. I'm impressed at how much it looks like I skidded across some gravel on my face, but it sure is ugly. I've never really cared too much about my appearance, but my eyes are watering a little as I look at the heavy scarring. Especially since I know that I don't scar well. I've had stitches before and not only did the suture itself create a big wide white scar that thickened up instead of staying thin, but even the needle holes left little dot scars. Not pretty at all. Definitely not the "cool tough girl" type of scar that you see in movies and books. More like a "stupid clumsy girl" kind of scar. I turn to Prim and Mrs. Everdeen.

"Thank you both for taking care of me, I know I'm not exactly the easiest patient to deal with. Mrs. Everdeen, you did a very good job making the scars look less suspicious, I'm grateful that you're so good at what you do," I tell them. Even if my face looks partially mutilated because of the scars, I know that it's better for it to look like something that could happen inside the fence rather than outside of it. Mrs. Everdeen smiles at me. It's the first time she's ever smiled at me, and I wonder if it's out of pity or if she's starting to think I'm not as bad as she thought.

"You're welcome," she says, and Prim echoes her. I hand her a pouch filled with blackberries I found growing wild in the woods earlier that day, and then exit out the back door. I want to go out to the woods to go for a long distance run. I want to start running while oxygen deprived, since I remembered the other day that I saw a short video once about a man who trained while oxygen deprived to help him deep sea dive for long periods of time without a scuba tank. Training without the oxygen enabled his muscles to get accustomed to functioning while he held his breath for long periods of time. I don't know if it will work for me, but if it does it might come in handy. I'm considering the possible benefits of being able to hold my breath and not lose strength in the arena when someone calls my name.

"Tamsin!" I turn around, instinctively responding to my name. I'm not typically called for by anybody, so I'm wondering who it is. Then I see Peeta waving at me. I wave back and he jogs a little to catch up to where I am. I think we are sort of friends now, because of what happened after the reaping a couple weeks back. At the very least, he doesn't seem to find me scary. My stomach churns at the thought of the reaping, especially since I know that the games haven't ended yet for this year.

"Hi," I say. His eyes are glued to my now exposed scars. Nobody besides Prim, Mrs. Everdeen, and then me today have seen what my face looks like now that it's not under the bandages. "Come to check out the damage behind the story?"

"Well…it definitely doesn't look like a cat scratch," he says, referring to the original big cat's claw marks in a way that shows he remembers the story but avoids the incriminating details of it. I can tell he's trying to keep to the positive, because now it looks like he's attempting to avoid looking at the scars.

"Nope." I agree. I'm not really sure what else to say, because I myself am still trying to get used to the reality that my face is now mutilated grotesquely. I'm glad I don't own a mirror.

"I've been wondering how you were doing, but you don't go to school and you're rarely in town. Well not in my area in town," he adds the last part on after a slight pause.

"I'm usually busy working on other things," I tell him. "I find that learning some new skills is more useful than learning at school."

"I guess that makes sense," he says, considering my words. "I wonder if maybe I should learn some new skills too."

"Like what?"

"How to make a cake using coal dust," he states with a grin, bringing back the short dialogue that took place in line on reaping day. I can tell he's trying to make me feel better, he seems like someone who can read others easily and pick up on how they're feeling. Not that it would be terribly difficult to tell that talking about my face makes me uncomfortable, but I appreciate the effort.

"After you master the coal dust, you could try adding the use of fish to your cake-making repertoire."

"Great idea! Well, I'd better get back to the bakery. Have a nice day, okay?"

"I'll do my best," I say. "You have a good day as well." He gives another small wave then walks back towards the bakery. I walk to the fence and after checking that the wires have no buzz of electricity, am under it in seconds. Practice has made the process quick.

I don't go very deep into the woods for my run, since I won't be trying to hunt. Animals don't often show up towards the edges of the forest, so it's a good place to run. I do a few jumping jacks and stretch first for a little bit to loosen up my muscles. Then, it's time to run. I hold my breath, and sprint for as long as I possibly can without taking a new breath, which turns out to not be very long at all. I continue to do this until I start feeling dizzy from lack of oxygen. Then I stretch again. My daily stretching routine has made me quite flexible, which I'm hoping might come in handy, but I mostly do it to help me keep my muscles from getting too sore to work the next day. As I stretch, I smile a little bit. I'd forgotten what it feels like to talk to someone my own age who isn't doing it because they have to.

I am glad that I'll be volunteering for Prim. I'm also glad that the person I'll be working to keep alive in the arena is Peeta. The two people who are genuinely nice to me.

I flip to push-up position and begin counting them out, holding my breath again. I was going to be done with training for the day after the run, but my resolve has strengthened again. Before, my motivation was primarily self-elimination. Now I've gotten to know the people I plan to protect. I'll train harder this year. Because now it has gotten more personal.


End file.
